


Drown

by Keturagh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asphyxiation, Begging, Edging, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Sitting, Flirting, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, POV Solas, Sex, Smut, Sub Solas, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 10:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11667261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: Solas begs a favor of his vhenan, Shaera, hoping she will enjoy what he has in mind - if she'll just give it a chance. All he wants is to lose himself in her heat.(This was a fic giveaway win for@elfsplainingand features her cute rogue Shaera Lavellan!)





	Drown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elfsplaining](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=elfsplaining).



“You’re serious.”

Solas removes a tome from the little low bench and places it up behind him, on the desk.

“Vhenan, I am sincere.” He says. “And in desperate straits.”

Shaera snorts.

“You’re fine.”

He can’t suppress a chuckle and he turns back to the bookshelf. This library in her chambers is small, but she has stuffed every shelf with books and artifacts, many Elvhen in origin, so that the excess tomes reside in thigh-high stacks on the floor. Her lute leans against the wall, flanked by the piles. She has made everything in her chambers speak of her: and she is beautiful; his heart cannot suppress another lurch of fondness, longing, wanting. The fold of her arms, her lips like sweet spinelberry twisting at his request… he wonders, at times, how fascinating it is that these small, beautiful things destroy him. Make his heart soar.

And how, again, and again - how he yearns to be destroyed.

And this is how it has been since he first saw her. Shaera looked at him that first time that they’d met, curious and just a little bit uncertain, shifting her feet in the snow: and he’d felt a weakening, a fluttering, a question all bursting within his chest.

Not this question, of course. The other question: the greatest question, sad and beautiful. And her answer? A kiss. _Ar lath ma,_ and yes.

The thrill of holding and having her is his first thought on waking and last on his mind before he travels the Fade. The resonance between them makes him feel as if he could live as her shadow and be eternally content. How did he live before her?

 _You did not,_ is the truest answer. Not really. Doesn’t she make life in this world worth living?

… He cannot bear the answer.

Yes. He loves her. He has loved her from the first.

And… he has tried, with mixed success, to keep the extent of her hold over his… lusts from being too apparent.

But he _had_ to ask for this.

 _Not having it, when she is right there._ Not having, when he can imagine how it would feel, look. How _she_ would feel, _how he could lay between her thighs and…_

Well.

It has been… inconvenient.

It has been…

 _Agony. Suffering, distress, **woe** ,_ his mind supplies, overwrought, and he slaps a firm seal back on the absurd whining of his base mind. Left to its devices, he would be throwing himself on his knees before her. He would be begging this from her favor.

But such seductions will require rather a little more… subtlety.

He speaks off-hand, hiding a pulse of desire. “I want to lay beneath you, Shaera. I will not pursue if you decline, but only wonder at what concerns you so.”

He restacks the last of the hefty stack of books from the little wood seat onto the desk behind him, It is a small, low bench made of oak, meant to help reach the higher shelves.

He watches her from the edge of his gaze.

That she stands entirely nude, her toes curling into the lush carpet, does no favors for his propriety. She worries one nail at the little hollow in her front teeth. She stares at the fire with decided apprehension, her arms wrapped over the petite rise of her bare, pale chest.

“I had not thought the act was unfamiliar.” He offers lightly.

She rolls her eyes to him. “ _Don’t_ be coy. I’m familiar. And you know it. Sort of… Only just not…” she shakes her head.

Shaera gives him her heart, her confidence, and a share of her rule over this tiny empire of desperate men, all called to war by the eye flying in her banners.

She gives him her bed.

But the thought of curling over him as he pleasures her? This has thrown her. He can imagine what her concerns might be.

He wants _very_ much to ease them.

He holds up a tome questioningly. “This title. Isn’t this…?” He recognizes the binding from the shop in Val Royueax. He had not been there himself, but had heard the tale of the shopkeeper’s disgusting habits.

“It is. Roys Lodott will think again before calling an elf a ‘worthless garden-thieving rabbit’ to her face. No, I didn’t steal it. Sera wanted to. And we might have, but I did her one better. I paid _three times_ the set price. Just threw a purse down on the table like a little shem lordling. The _look_ on his blotchy, wretched face under that stupid mask.” She laughs, well-amused, and walks over to take the book. Her friendship with Sera has been good for her, he must admit. She has become less withdrawn. More willing to take risks in front of people, more willing to bare her heart as well as test her strength.

The pages slap aside as her eyes rove, hungry, through the text.

“Then just a word or two to the boy he hired to deliver his rent.” She says. “A few more coins, and the purse filled pockets in the alienage that night. Untraceable, of course. And the building owner? So very, _very_ unhappy to not receive his payment. So, now Lodott has no shop and no reason to hire pretty young things to work for him.” Her eyes go flat and flinty. “No more holding back their wages for _‘favors’_ before he hands over their livelihood.” She snaps the tome shut and Solas shares the flush of triumph in her cheeks.

She says this so simply, pride and ease, as if anyone could have done the same. He admires how she wields her determination - with such grace, and power. Will she never fail to make him wonder at her spirit?

He carries the empty bench around the desk and slides her into his arm, pressing her against his side. She makes a small sound and he feels his heart speed.

“Well done, vhenan.” When he leans close, the bright, sweet flowers crowning her smell light and lush, and he wants to bury his face against her dark hair. “Well seen. A victory, and justice meted. And yet another example, I think, of why you so deserve to be well-tended. Is it not so?”

She moves against him then, so nicely, but still protests, hesitant. “Won’t I… crush you?”

He bends to press his lips against her neck. He makes his touch soothing and soft - and then he casts his voice low to beg, against her ear, “ _Would_ you? Is that too much to ask?”

A shiver goes through her. He tightens his hold. Her whole body, bare and supple, radiates heat. But he can feel her warmest at the crook of her thighs, and he starts to maneuver his knee to press her there - but then she pulls away from him, both hands on his chest.

“Alright.” She says, laughing. “You can take it down, alright.” He grins and lets her go, a little sheepish. And excited. Unspeakably happy that she has agreed. But before he continues his preparations they simply stand, both looking at the other, sharing a gentle moment where all he can see and all he wants to look at are her dark, curious eyes in the evening light, cast soft against her skin through the moon-shapes of the windows.

She cocks her head and her lips quirk. “Well,” she gestures to the little bench held in his hand. “Go ahead.”

He reaches out and takes her hand instead. He tastes her knuckles with a light lick, then presses a kiss when she breathes in. Turning her palm, his lips find her wrist. Suckle and kiss, and then a series of small, light bites up her forearm. When he takes a step back she steps forward; he leads her to the bed.

He tosses the little bench up near the headboard and then slowly wraps his arms around her. And they both must be a little lightheaded because this kiss has them swaying on their feet. She kisses him, her fingers pulling his chin towards her, and his eyes close as he leans over her and the kiss becomes a deep and sea-like moment: dark, rhythmic, stealing light and time.

She squeaks when he lifts her. Her legs jolt up to grasp around his hips; he spins her so that he can lay her on the bed. Then he presses his body over hers, entirely too dressed. She helps him unloop the belt, then work the sweater over his shoulders. When his bare chest rubs back against her smooth, plush form it pulls a groan from deep within him. But then the urge, the wanting, pushes up again, and he pulls and rotates her, positioning their bodies to that she straddles his hips and he lays flat beneath her. He looks back and spots the little bench.

“Here. Let’s move a little further down - there, good, that should allow enough room.” He sets the bench up behind his head and then flips one of the pillows up onto it. “Will that be comfortable?”

Shaera eyes him, realizing that he means for her to test it.

He smiles at her, pleasant.

Then, when she does not move, he reaches down and tugs, with just the slightest hint of impatience, behind her knees.

“If you die doing this, I’m not feeling sorry for you.” She says as she shifts up either side of his chest. When she is positioned over his neck she leans forward and places her weight, experimentally, on the pillowed support.

“If only.” He murmurs, but she makes no sign she hears.

His eyes wander; her body leaning over him is a distraction. Her stomach pudges slightly down, soft and darling, and her breasts sway as she shifts.

“Soft?” He asks.

“It’s nice. Warm.”

The strength of her muscled legs is taut. He can tell she is uncertain still, and he knows she must be soothed. So he shifts down and wriggles out from beneath her, unable to keep from lifting up to place a quick kiss to her inner thigh; she yips, and he chuckles as he draws himself up behind her. He starts rubbing his hands in slow, massaging circles into the stress of her back. Kneeling behind her, putting his lips down her spine, rubbing her deeply with long and skillful fingers; she moans and eventually starts to really lean forward, putting her whole weight on the pillowed support. As she leans her knees spread apart, dropping her weight deeper towards the bed, grounding her.

“Solas.” She says his name like thanks. And even though he knows he does not deserve it, he can give this to her, and it feels good - _so, so good_ \- to be near her and touch her.

“Ar lath, ma vhenan.”

He presses his hands into her shoulders. Squeezes. Moves the muscles until her skin pinks with a healthy, pleased flush.

And then, when she is breathing deeply and slowly, and her head hangs loose and all her weight falls deep into her arms and legs, he moves his lips, and his hands, down her spine.

He brushes against the tight softness of her jut, angled towards him. He loves to watch her squeeze and move when he teases against her. She sighs softly and leans back.

“I love your fingers.”

“I like to give you good reason.” He says.

She laughs softly, relaxed.

He slips a finger to spread the lips of her jut; he loves the softness of her mound, and she already has a modest wetness that smooths between his fingers. But he does not spend too much time here, yet. He brushes his touch slow and intimate on her inner thighs, around to the back of her knees, and then back up to gently cup her ass.

“You are so striking, ma vhenan.” He squeezes and groans, pushing close against her. And he feels her push her weight back into him. He feels a sudden aching desire to free himself and press into her just like this, taking her from behind.

When he touches, just barely, against her jut once more, his fingers come away dripping.

The heady taste of her, licked from his fingertips, drives him back to purpose.

Moving slow, he turns and lays onto his shoulder, then settles on his back within the gully of her legs. Even as he shifts up the bed he continues to move his hands in the slow massaging circles all over her legs and lower back.

And then he lifts his head and licks the sweet softness her mound, her flavor bursting on his tongue, a moan spilling from his chest; he takes her into his mouth and his chest burns to draw breath.

“Solas.” She hisses.

He perhaps moved too fast - was too eager in his first chance at her. For her hips buck up and lift, her weight shifting up to where he cannot easily reach, and his head drops back down to the mattress in defeat. His breath comes in shudders; he must fight through a blind moment of swimming thoughts and the confusion of her absence before he can think of what to say.

“You… taste so good,” he breathes.

His eyes flutter open and the beauty of her cunt is so close; he strains his neck to lift to her once again. But she pulls up further, away from him just enough that even straining he cannot reach her.

“Vhe _nan_.” He whines, more petulant than he’d like to admit.

“Oh, is that what you want?”

Something in her tone makes him snap his head back to peer at her face.

“Yes.” He requests, guarded.

She looks down at him through her elbows, her dark hair tumbling in wispy strands down out of its band and sticking to her cheeks. Mythal’s marks on her plump apple cheeks wrinkle around her eyes. Her smile taunts and teases him.

“Seems you can’t have what you can’t reach.”

He stares at her.

“… So it seems.”

Her hips shift down then and, even knowing the trick, he can’t help himself from lunging up to meet her with his tongue. She pulls up again at once, and when he falls back to the mattress he looks back up at her with open desperation.

“ _Please,_ vhenan.”

Her look turns to a show of pensiveness.

“I do like the sound of that. Curious.”

His hands clench and he feels a rebellious swell of defiance like a column in his throat. But at its heart is a fascinating, passionate thrill: _yes._ Yes.

“Please. Please.” As he begs his head lifts, he gazes up at his aim: the soft mound of her - so much like a fruit of sweet and exotic juice and fascinating shape. She has the natural peach fuzz of their people and she does not shave it down, and now the naturally soft and small hairs glisten with the wetness he’s traced over them. Her cunt hovers above him, just out of reach. And he begs for it, whimpering, straining until his neck is sharp and sore. “Please. I want to taste you. I want to suck and make you feel as you never have before. I want your pretty sex pressed against my lips. I want - I want you to push against my mouth, my - my sweet honey - please -”

It is when he feels his strength giving out, the strain in his neck a sharp, unbearable pain, that she finally relents. As his head falls back to the mattress her hips follow down upon him. He cups around her backside, eagerly wanting to pull her even closer. He fills his mouth with her. First at her lips; taking long, greedy laps between her labia to taste her. He breathes choked praises, _so good,_ and _thank you,_ and _more._ Then he presses kisses all around the outside of her mound. He angles up, at last, over her clove; and here is where he takes his time. He moves his tongue slow and hard up over her clit. She responds with a groan, so he repeats the motion. Again, and again. Then side to side, listening for her reaction. It’s encouraging. He continues in that way and keeps roving his hands on her ass, the backs of her thighs. He hears her breath hitch and he suckles; her clit is swollen now and when he sucks it between his lips she moans and presses her weight down. _Good. Good. Yes._ He has her - as he sucks, his tongue tries different rune-shapes, time becoming nothing as he works her, discovering which will make her, at last, grind herself against his chin. When he finds one that makes her both pant and grind he keeps at it, pushing his tongue deeper to stimulate the deep stem of her clove, her taste and scent like the opiate of lotus snuff and making his senses just as wild.

“Solas.” She’s moaning.

He can no longer speak. Breathing alone is difficult. He forgets time, half-aware the room is darkening. He can tell when he stops doing what feels best because - _oh - oh yes_ \- she reaches down and guides his head, fingers tight on his bare scalp, back to a different angle, and if he had hair he knows she would be pulling it. Then she grinds down into his lips, all her reservations forgotten, clearly receiving a mind-shattering torrent of pleasure from his mouth upon her cunt that frees her to chase her release from him at will. He indulges her every rut with carnal, frantic gulps, and his fingers slip from where he has been pulling her down onto his face up under his chin. From there he can slip within her.

Her cry, when he circles and then strokes up within her, is a sensual, arousing song. Her ass is full and so close to his mouth and he almost wishes she were facing the other direction so he could be fully overwhelmed by her and she’s getting _loud_ now, and with this realization Solas discovers he has no control left.

With his free right hand he tears, clumsily, at his breeches, the rhythm of his mouth briefly erratic as he frees his cock, which has been straining and pulsing, brushing against his breeches with maddening sensitivity. His lewdly engorged length slaps down onto his belly. The open air is a welcome relief; but at the same time his cock begs for the sensation, again, of touch.

His fingers plunge into the soaking heat of her as he draws one finger - only one light, tormenting finger, up his length. She has not noticed his cock is out. Sweat shines on her body and, when he glances up through the haze of his arousal, he sees her eyes glazed over. She grinds her clit into his mouth and he takes it. He stifles a muffled shout as he almost comes, his cock pulsing with a surge of passion. _No. No._ He fights it off, focusing sharply on moving his tongue in the shape of a particularly complex rune: over, down, short line, long line, circle up, the next line is right-to-left and positioned roughly above the third -

She cries out, her whole body trembling, and he feels her starting to clench down on his fingers. With his right hand still shaking lightly as he draws that one tortuous finger up, up the length of his erection and circling down around his tip, he presses his fingers up within her at a madcap pace, guided by how she grinds against him. He hums, begging, wanting, _mhm, mhm,_ meaning please and yes. And she seems to understand, at least, because she smothers him with her cunt: the breaths he draws through his nose are loud, short gasps. His head starts to swim. He sees darkness haloing his vision so he closes his eyes and pumps into her harder, sucking in a way that makes her moan.

Drowning in her juices, the deluge of slick covering his lips and chin and trickling down the sides of his face, he knows that if he let himself orgasm now his come would stream up onto her back, pounding out of him in hard, long, satisfying squirts until he was fully limp and her spine and ass were covered in his spend.

But though his cock pulses and a small stream of pre-come gushes from his tip, he _forces_ his hand to pull away.

She smothers him with her hot soaking pussy in a frenzy, then, so close to her release; he can feel the trembling starting in her thighs, rolling up her body in waves. The back of his head is pushed hard into the mattress. He sucks her into his mouth; she angles up, thrusting into his mouth and nose; she comes with a shout and he’s never felt her buck so hard or shudder so violently through release.

Then, while still at the height of her release she starts to pull away, concerned, likely, that she is hurting him, but he _must, he must have this_ and so he slaps a hand down hard on her backside and grips her tight.

She relents because she is cresting a second time, now; she seems to lose all sense as his fingers fuck her. She immerses him. Her thighs tighten strong and hard around his face. She sits heavy on him to pull the waves of pleasure from his mouth, her cries now hoarse and almost pained, his name mingled with them in the air. Her legs are so strong. Her grasp is tight. Solas holds her to him, forcing her to stay on him through to yet another end, and it is as he holds her and as she shudders, dripping with sweat, in her final throes, that he remembers he cannot remember breathing, and he realizes her legs are, in fact, very strong indeed, and that he has perhaps miscalculated, but _oh, this feels so good,_ and then darkness slams into his brain.

–

He wakes from the quiet sea. Her beautiful body is still trembling above him.

He is disoriented. Did he wake just now? … Or has he fallen into this vision, and she - she a moonlit dream?

She seems not to have noticed. So he could not have lost consciousness for very long. She has lifted up off him, likely because his hands would have slid away from her when he went out. But she still crouches over him, her weight shifted fully forward onto the pillowed support. She is breathing hard. Her body slumps, weak.

“Shaera.” His throat is hoarse.

She nods, swallows. She takes a breath like she means to speak. And then she only nods again.

“Shaera.” He says it again - this time it is a moan, a plea. His throat hurts. His head spins.

She shifts her weight over and slides off of him and then, weakly, reaches down to grab his cock.

“Unn..” He moans. He didn’t mean… he didn’t want her to… but….

She touches so clumsily at him. Drunk off her release and entirely spent, still she offers to pleasure him. “You,” she mumbles into the covers. “You.”

He reaches down and stills her fumbling hand. “Yes.” He whispers.

And he is still hard and yearning, his erection straining up for release. His mind, half-fogged, clears enough for him to kick away his breeches and then kick the bench (and pillow, accidentally) off the bed as he lifts over her. She tries to turn or push back against him, wanting to help, but he strokes the side of her face. “Shhh.” He soothes.

She relaxes back facedown into the mattress, her eyes rolling up as he slips inside her.

“Uhn… h-how good you tasted, how beautiful your sweet wet heat, like honey…”

She swallows, gasps.

He slides in the hot, spent slick of her cunt.

She moans.

“Oh.” He hisses. “You take it so well, vhenan.”

Faster, and faster, the pressure building at once to an unbearable groaning frenzy. He pins her hips to the mattress. She moans, and he knows the force of his weight on her will be humping her sex against the sheets. She might come again; weakly, sleepily. She is limp when his cock at last erupts. His hands clench down on her as his length pulses, and pulses again - his load is heavy and it pushes within her, and when he thinks back to her cunt pressed hard into his mouth he pulses again.

When he has filled her, his mind is blank. There is no knowledge of himself. Only of her body, fully sated, beneath him. And within him there is only a deep, peaceful sense of satisfaction as their spends mix, and, having nowhere else to go within her, push back up his length and drip down his balls.

“Vhenan.” He says, collapsing beside her. His voice breaks; his body is weak and covered in sweat. He feels like the world is turning over and over. His lungs ache.

“Mhm.” She answers.

She must cover them at some point in the night, because when he wakes just a little to draw her closer into his arms, the blanket on his back is warm and soft.


End file.
